Alan Russell - Burning Man

I pulled up the drive of the Kleins’ house and extended an index finger to the call box. An accented voice spoke from the intercom: “Yes?”

“I am Detective Gideon, here to speak with Mrs. Klein.”

The wrought-iron gate opened, and I drove up a flagstone driveway. I parked in front of a house that had been built in the style of mission revival, even though I imagined it was bigger than any of the original California missions. There were long corridors with arches; white paint had been applied over the stucco finish. The front yard had a parklike feel, with tiered fountains and well-tended gardens.

After opening the car windows for Sirius and telling him to be good, I walked up the path. The door opened before I reached it. A small Hispanic woman started at the sight of my scarred face, but she recovered quickly and said in the same voice I’d heard over the intercom, “I take you to Miss Klein.”

I followed her down a long hallway. We passed by a showcase living room that was about the size of my house, and an equally imposing dining room. The domestic stopped at a door and lightly knocked.

“The policeman is here, Miss Klein,” she said.

A muffled voice answered, and the maid opened the door and gestured for me to pass. Once I was inside the study, the door closed behind me. It took me a moment to get used to the dim lighting. Michelle Klein was holed up in the darkness. There was just enough light for me to see her red eyes and blotchy face. She was seated behind a desk. It seemed it was all she could do to raise her chin up from her chest to look at me.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. I am terribly sorry about the death of your son.”

She didn’t respond with words or body language. I extended my business card her way, but she didn’t take it, so I put it down on her desk.

“I am Detective Gideon. Is it all right if I sit, Mrs. Klein? I am afraid there are questions I need to ask.”

She tilted her head slightly, and as I was taking a seat in a chair she asked in a raspy voice, “How did he die? They never told me how Paul died.”

“He was shot.”

She sighed, swallowed hard, and her head dropped back down to her chest.

“But I am afraid there was more to it than that,” I added. “The circumstances of his death were very peculiar. After Paul was shot, he was nailed to a tree.”

It took a few moments for my words to penetrate her grief. She stared at me in disbelief. “What?”

“His limbs were nailed to a tree.”

My words shocked her when few other things could. “He was crucified?”

I nodded.

“What sick fuck would do that?”

I didn’t answer.

“What kind of crazy fucking asshole would desecrate my baby?”

She slapped the sides of her face with both hands, and the sound of the impact was loud in the small space we were sharing. Her dark eyes searched mine, looking for answers.

“We have every resource available committed to finding your son’s murderer.”

My rote words brought her no comfort. “Where did he die?” she asked.

“From the evidence we’ve uncovered, it looks as if he was shot in Runyon Park. He was wearing running clothes. Was that a place where he frequently went running?”

“He ran there two or three days a week,” she said, clearly distracted by the news of the defilement of her son. “That’s where you found him? That’s where he was…” The word caught in her throat.

“Yes. He was found on a remote trail, nailed to an oak tree.”

After a few moments of silence she said, “Ask your questions.”

“Did your son have any enemies?”

She shook her head.

“Did he have a rivalry going on with anyone?”

“What do you mean?”

“For example, maybe he and another boy were interested in the same girl?”

Another head shake. “The girls were the ones always calling Paul.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

“He only had what he referred to as his girlfriends de jour.”

“When was the last time you saw your son?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“You weren’t concerned that he didn’t come home last night?”

“Paul was eighteen,” she said, offering up the figure as if to challenge me, or to assuage her own doubts. “He was an adult. He had his group. Everyone was always crashing at one house or the other. I assumed he was at a friend’s house. Paul called me yesterday afternoon while I was working and told me he’d be going out later. That’s why I wasn’t worried when he didn’t come home.”

“Was he often out late on school nights?”

“I wasn’t a fucking negligent parent, if that’s what you’re implying. Paul was an honor student. He was an athlete. And he had already been accepted early decision to Cornell University. He had earned some freedom to do as he wanted.”

“Do you know if your son used drugs?”

“He tried pot a few times and he sometimes drank at parties, but Paul was always responsible. He would never drink and drive.”

“Is it possible Paul was dealing drugs?”

Her denial was quick and certain. “Of course not.”

“Then do you have any explanation as to why he was carrying a baggie full of OxyContin and Ecstasy in his running belt?”

“I don’t know why, but I do know Paul would never do anything stupid like deal drugs.”

“Did he go to raves?”

“No.”

“You don’t think he ever took OxyContin or Ecstasy?”

“I never saw any sign of that.”

“Could he have been supplying his friends?”

“Why would he do that? He had plenty of his own money. His father-my ex-has been trying to buy the affection of Paul and his sister ever since we divorced eight years ago.”

“Does your daughter live in the house?”

Michelle shook her head. “Sandra is a sophomore at Williams.”

“What does your ex do?”

“Adam Klein?” she said, as if I should know the name.

I shook my head.

“He’s a producer.”

It still didn’t ring a bell, but then I don’t spend my spare time reading Variety . “What kind of a relationship did Paul have with his father?”

“The kind of relationship you’d expect from a schmuck with a new family. I was the first wife; Adam’s on his third.”

“Does your ex have other children?”

“He and the latest Mrs. Klein have two children, both under five.”

“What did Paul think of that?”

“Paul had anger issues since the day Adam walked out on us. It’s hard for a boy to understand why his father is an asshole.”

“Did Paul see a therapist?”

“A long time ago. And for the most part he put his abandonment issues behind him.”

“You said your former husband tried to buy Paul’s love.”

“He gave him money. And he bought Paul his BMW.”

“How often did they see one another?”

“They got together maybe once a month. Adam would take Paul to a Lakers game or out to dinner.”

“You said that Paul called you at work yesterday. What do you do?”

“I have my own real estate agency.”

“I imagine that’s a lot of work.”

She didn’t answer at first but then said, “I took a client out to dinner last night and didn’t get home until late. I just assumed Paul was spending the night at a friend’s house. He was always with his group, what he called his entourage.”

For a moment she showed a fleeting smile, but it quickly turned into a flinch; it hurt too much for her to remember.

“Tell me about his group.”

“They were boys from his high school. When they went out, there were always four or five of them.”

“Did he have a best friend?”

I got a small nod. “He’s known Jason Davis since sandbox days.”